“You didn’t tell her about my taking the ferry over to Tallinn, did you?”
James laughed so hard that his body quaked. “No, of course not. Make her work a little bit, you know?”
“She is arrogant and stubborn.”
“She says the same about you.” James handed Kyle his boat tickets and other paperwork, slipped the car into gear, and they drove away along the freshly plowed streets to Tyynenmerenkatu 8, the sprawling West Terminal used by the boats of the Tallink & Silja Line. Swanson noticed that although it was freezing outside, the Finns were going about their business pretty much as they had done the previous day in the sunshine. They knew how to live with weather.
“You take care of yourself over there, Swanson. One of your people, a trade attaché at the American embassy, will meet you on the other side.”
“Couldn’t I just rent a car and drive to this castle?”
“Trust me, pal. You need a guide in this strange territory. You don’t speak Estonian, do you?”
“Not a word.”
“It sounds a lot like gargling mouthwash while yodeling. Your best bet is to remember this one phrase: ma ei räägi eesti keelt—it means ‘I don’t speak Estonian.’”
“Oh, boy.” Kyle muttered the strange words. Not a chance that he could remember that.
“Yeah,” said James. He scribbled a private telephone number on a business card and gave it to Kyle. “Good luck. I’m off this case officially as of yesterday, so I’m just acting as a friend. Call me if I can help. Otherwise, I’ll see you when I see you.”
6
The big white ferry trimmed in lime green stripes rode ten decks tall and loaded more than two thousand passengers for the two-hour journey out of Helsinki, across the Baltic Sea to Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. Unmelted blocks of ice still bobbed in the cold water. A helicopter would have been much quicker, but the chopper service did not awaken from its winter season until May, more than three weeks away. Swanson went up to the plush business lounge on the sixth deck, and from the windows, looked down at the terminal and saw Lem James standing beside Inspector Aura and her sergeant, all of them waiting for the boat to shove off and take Kyle away from Finland.
He opened his laptop PC and logged in, surfing the Net for nothing in particular. He e-mailed Janna Ecklund back in Washington to say he was taking a ferry to Estonia and would be available by e-mail or cell phone. Messaged that he would be back in the States in a few days, anything to keep the surfing going and the Wi-Fi connection alive. There was no doubt that he was being electronically tracked, so he wanted to make it easy for the snoopers to confirm his exact position. The boat finished filling with passengers, cargo and vehicles, the powerful engines began to turn and the crew tossed the ropes. It headed away from the pier right on time. Kyle put on his heavy black wool coat and went outside on the rear deck to give Inspector Aura one last confirmation sighting. It was very cold, and he pulled up his collar. He saw Lem James and waved. The agent pointed and the inspector took a picture. He stayed out there until the vessel was on open water and the cold wind increased in velocity.
Back inside, he drank hot chocolate for warmth, shut down the laptop and read a few newspapers to help the minutes pass. The vibration of the ship was felt in his bones. He watched for faces, for followers, but spotted no one on his tail. As everybody involved now knew, and the GPS coordinates confirmed, Kyle Swanson was exactly where he was supposed to be, right on schedule, and responsible people were waiting at the other end of the short voyage to put a new leash on his collar. They would be comforted by that certainty. Excellent, Swanson thought. It was time to change the rules.
There were one hundred eighty-five private cabins on the ship, and he had a ticket for one of the ninety-two rooms that had views of the water from large, curtained portholes. He hurried up one flight to Deck Seven. The room was large, by ferry standards, had a private shower and could handle up to four people with ease, or one rich American like himself. The luggage was lined neatly in one corner. He opened a medium bag that contained neat partitions for pairs of shoes, and one space for the bag of used underwear. He removed the footwear and the dirty clothes, disarmed the security device and popped the false bottom.
Everything he needed was in there, including cellophane-wrapped bricks of $10,000 in U.S. currency. He took one, closed the case, set the alarm and returned to the business lounge. A foreign money exchange sign showed that one American dollar was worth about one and one-quarter European Euros, so he exchanged $5,000 for €3,996 plus change, minus a small transaction fee. The clerk at the banking facility in the elite Business Class section did not bat an eye at the amount. On the way back to his cabin, Kyle made another trip outside and, once on the frigid deck, he pulled the memory card from his cell phone and dropped both devices overboard. They splashed into the ferry’s turbulent wake and sank.
Back inside, Swanson descended all the way down to the bottom, where hundreds of vehicles were solidly chained into long rows, orderly and tight, bumper to bumper, side by side. The vehicles rocked on their springs in rhythm with the waves pounding the steel hull. Passengers were not allowed on this deck during the voyage, but from a catwalk above, Kyle examined the space, uninterested in the colorful lines of over-the-road trucks, sedans and sports utility vehicles. On the port side near the bow, a section was given over to about a half-dozen motorcycles, packed in tightly and also secured. From there, as soon as the ramp was lowered, the bikes would be allowed to buzz off first to get them out of the way of the larger traffic. He gave his silent approval. He could do business there.
Back in his cabin, he called for the steward, who was an English-speaking youngster named Matias, wearing a uniform tunic with the ship’s logo. A deal was made for when the boat docked in Estonia. The kid was to personally load the luggage into a taxi and deliver it to the Radisson Blu Sky Hotel and leave it with the concierge there, on hold for the arrival of Kyle Swanson of Excalibur Enterprises, who had a reservation. A bonus if Matias could track down the owner of the sleek black BMW R nineT motorcycle that was presently tied down on the vehicle deck. The boy agreed.
Kyle shucked out of his business suit and put it on a hangar in the folding bag. He would dress for a ride in cold weather, and no cotton garments would be able to wick away the sweat. The resulting sheen of moisture on the skin would pull away body warmth. He had to layer up. First came the soft, synthetic boxers and T-shirt and socks, and over that he slid a set of long thermal underwear. He finished with old jeans and a black T-shirt, and a pair of good boots. That was not nearly good enough for a long ride on a cold road, but it formed a good building block.
Digging in the hidden stash again, Swanson removed a set of fake hair additions and, using a bit of spirit gum as adhesive, affixed a thick brown mustache above his lip, smoothing it straight with his fingertips. His hair would not require a wig. Unfolding a backpack, he put in most of the cash, a notepad and pens, several fake press passes that showed he was Canadian journalist Simon Brown and a Visa card. Neatly arranged at the bottom of the case was a blanket, a rain suit, the monocular and a pencil-thin flashlight. Finally, he shook out a loose gray hoodie that covered a clip holster containing a Beretta Px4 Storm Compact handgun along with a spare clip of 9mm ammo. He closed up the suitcases again, leaving the laptop inside one of them.
Kyle breathed easier. In a few minutes, he would be off the grid.